


Square

by gala_apples



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron wants to be best mates for life with additional sex. He can't think of it as a full relationship, not when there's not offspring. Harry thinks it can be. He wants the equivalent of marriage. So Ron goes to Seamus for the understanding that homosexuality isn't considered real, because Seamus knows what's real in wizarding life, and Harry goes to Draco because Draco's lost so much in his life that he no longer cares about what's real for other people. Later Seamus and Draco meet, faceless but entirely themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square

It always starts with a conversation. It's not as though Seamus writes Ron a note, telling him they have to talk. It's not as though an owl lands on Ron's work desk, letter telling him to go to MacDonald's pub. Seamus face doesn't appear in the fireplace of 31 Jory Lane giving orders. There's nothing preordained about it, it just happens, and every time is supposed to be the last, and it never is.

What seems like every night, not that Seamus keeps count (though if an outside observer did, they would note it's at least five nights a week), he's in MacDonald's. A normal man would sip at a beer while watching the football game on the corner telly. Seamus is not normal. He suspects no one from his generation really is, or ever will be. Too much trauma to ever be normal. Seamus buys shots of vodka four at a time (the most a single person can buy) and downs them one by one, whenever he feels his buzz starting to drop. Each shot is an arm and a leg. If he spent the same money on bottles and stayed at home, he'd have a full forty instead of eight shots. But he has the money to spend, and home is somewhere he never wants to be. 

Seamus tosses back another shot. The glass is too big or his mouth is too small, either way he always has to swallow once and go back to drain the glass. It defeats the entire purpose of a shot glass, which is to knock it back once and be done. The vodka burns his mouth and throat. It makes his body tingle and feel alive, like eating spicy food or wanking, or when his knees shoot spikes of pain up his thighs when he kneels praying too long. 

Some time later- he doesn't know how long he's been here, football is still on, but it's always on, the only thing that changes is the colours of the uniforms- he feels a hand on his shoulder. In his youth, he knew that this time of night was when his pa and uncles were ready to fight. Any nudge or off comment and fists flew. Now that he's old enough to be here, not just called down to be the sober one to bring them home, his soul is too old for that sort of thing. He's more tired at twenty-two then his pa had been at forty-five.

But the hand is not the prodding of a man who wants to fight, or the harsh sympathy of a bartender who won't let himself care about yet another drunk. The hand is freckled, belonging to Ron Weasley. Seamus murmurs a hello, and Ron responds in kind. Then he sits, and they drink alone, together.

See, the problem is, Harry doesn't understand. There are things that go along with being pureblooded that no muggle-raised wizard will ever understand. It's not racism, Seamus doesn't hate muggle-raised wizards. His best friend is muggle raised. But they don't understand the pressure that goes along with being able to trace your heritage back until the 1500's.

Ron comes to the bar infrequently. He has a happy, great relationship with his lover. Except when he doesn't. He and Harry have been together forever, and Ron doesn't want to ruin that by going outside for help. Except when he does. Seamus is able to provide psychological support, not a small portion of which is allowing the man the opportunity to drink and vent. When Ron gets shitfaced, another man might find him offensive. Seamus doesn't, because Seamus knows more than all the other men. 

It always happens the same way. Ron can barely walk, and he has to piss from all the alcohol building up in his bladder. Seamus, who is smaller than Ron, somehow manages to help him to the toilets. Depending on how much Ron's consumed Seamus' duty ranges from standing idly outside the stall, to unzipping his zipper and reminding Ron of the importance of aiming. Ron washes his hands, and then kisses Seamus.

He doesn't stop him. He's prayed, and the answer has never changed; it's his duty as a man to help a fellow man not crack under the strain of being perfect. If once every few months Ron needs to not be HarrynRon, than Seamus will help him. He kisses back, parting Ron's lips with his tongue. The hands that started everything by falling on his shoulder migrate back, holding, clenching. It's as though Ron thinks he's going to run if he's not held in place. Nothing's further from the truth, Seamus would never abandon someone. 

They're both drunk enough that splinching is likely, but they can't do this here. Staying in a room where white tile runs halfway up the wall makes it somehow dirty and wrong. There's nothing dirty or wrong about this. Seamus figures himself more sober then Ron, or at least more capable of pulling for brief moments. They make it to his living room, and if Seamus is missing half an eyebrow or a toenail, he considers himself lucky. It calls to how often this has happened, that Ron knows without asking to go up the flight of stairs. He hangs onto the mahogany railing for dear life, Seamus stands at the bottom of the stairs with a cushioning charm on the tip of his tongue. This time Ron makes it, and turns to the door on the left.

He tries to see the room through Ron's eyes, if only for a moment. White carpet and walls, mahogany armoire, celadon curtains and sheets. A basket of clothing in the corner of the room, because certain shirts are loved so much that he'll pick them out from the dirty laundry to wear again. There's nothing special that declares it as his room, his personal stamps are in the kitchen and living room. A psychology major might say he's detached from life. Seamus might not disagree.

Ron strips quickly, hand darting to the bed frame to prevent him from falling over when he bends to take off his shoes. Seamus winces a bit at the knowledge that their sneakers, sticky from spilled alcohol on the pub floor, are all over his white carpet. But that's what cleaning charms are for, and besides, Ron's naked in front of him. 

It's not hard to take off his clothes and move to his bed. What's hard is to remember how long ago it was that he's done it. Ron's built up so much of a perfect facade that it takes enough alcohol to down an erumpent for the face to crack. That much drink can do a man's head in, even a man that had his first beer sitting on his pa's knee at seven. Ron is beside him, the blanket crumpled underneath them. Ron straddles him, clumsy hands pressing hard on his arms, holding them to the bed. Everything in Ron's position says he thinks Seamus is going to run. It would make him worried for HarrynRon's sex life, except he knows that what occurs on these nights is fields away from what occurs on Ron's normal nights. It's sort of the point, innit?

The spells are slurred; Seamus has to take the wand from Ron's hand after the third mispronunciation. Ever since Wingardium Leviosa, Ron's not been the best with pronouncing spells. It's not nearly as effective with someone else's wand, but his is somewhere in the living room, dropped with his coat. Soon enough they're ready. There are sweaty hands lifting up his legs, pinning his knees to his chest. It's the same position, every time.

Orgasm seems to have the same effect as a sobering potion (not that Seamus has ever taken one. Only wimps and sissies can't handle their alcohol). Whereas other men fall asleep, Ron blinks and stands. He smiles at Seamus, it's an odd smile to classify. There's relief, there's no question about that. But he also sees a new sort of tension, and wariness. Happiness too. Hope? Possibly. It's very likely that Seamus is reading too much into the ten second look, but when he's still sprawled on the bed, dripping with fluids, it's hard to be pragmatic. 

Ron leaves without saying another word. Seamus goes down the stairs to fetch his wand, it's nestled safely in the hidden pocket of his jacket. He casts a cleaning spell on himself, then the bed, then the carpet. He rifles through the dirty laundry basket and finds an old worn shirt, logo incomprehensible from all the cleaning spells over the years. Slipping it on, he climbs under the sheets. It's been a long day. A calm settles over him as his eyes close and he begins to murmur Hail Mary.

 

The owl is exhausted when it drops the letter in Draco's lap. Draco frowns and jerks his head in a 'come with me' fashion. It gives a bleary hoot and follows him down a badly lit hallway. There are at least six doors on either side, all closed. At the end of the hall is the only door without a handle, Draco pushes it with one hand, letting the owl and himself through before having it swing closed at his back.

"You'd think Potter would know how to better treat an animal," he mutters as he fills a bowl with water for the owl to drink from. It's probably not fair; Harry hasn't owned an owl since Hedwig. This poor creature is just another rented out over worked bird, probably hopped up on compulsion spells to finish the task without breaks, so the owner can get it back a few hours quicker, never mind the owl will die a year earlier. It makes his fingers clench to think of it.

If there are spells, the owl will be gone in a minute. Draco has half a mind to place a tracking spell on it, and hex the hell out of whoever owns this creature. Once it seems comfortable, he turns his attention to the letter. It's short and blunt, identical to the man that sent it.

I'll be over at nine. Assuming you haven't changed the wards. H.

For the love of... It's 8.45! How can he possibly be expected to host a guest with fifteen minutes notice? Especially considering the nature of his guest, there is no telling where they'll end up. Which means every room has to be spotless. He races out the kitchen, and the force of his first alohomora cracks the door down the centre. Fuck! It is a quick thing to repair it, but it loses him thirty seconds of his precious fifteen minutes. 

The bathroom needed the dust bunnies behind the door banished, the dining room needed the displayed silverware polished. The master bedroom needed the sheets straightened, the two spare bedrooms smelled musty and old from unuse. He's only beginning to banish the layer of dust on the top shelf of books in the library when he hears the distinct crack of someone apperating. 

He quickly casts a blood dispersing spell. It won't do to look flushed, nervous and rushed is not a Malfoy claim to fame. The spell has a dizzying after effect, but at twenty-two years he is used to it. The Malfoys are proud of blond and pale, not red and red like the stinking Weasley swine. Pink like a pig.

"In the library!" he calls out in a carefully chosen tone and volume. It doesn't say welcome, or come here. It only says I am here, if you want me you must find me. Perhaps I will give you the pleasure of having my company.

When Harry enters the room, he's a mess. His hair is uncombed, his robe is horribly unkempt, his glasses have fingerprints, and he even has a spot of chocolate icing on his lip. It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's not. Gryffindors in general are filthy beings, and Harry even more so. What is a surprise is that Draco doesn't turn him away when he sees the man. Doesn't even cast a tooth-brushing spell before striding to the man and kissing him passionately.

To give credit where credit is due -and Draco quite thinks he deserves credit for everything he does- though, he only kisses him once before turning 180 degrees and sitting in an old, overstuffed chair. He eyes Harry. He looks desperate. Harry always looks desperate, he wouldn't come here if he wasn't. 

"What?" It's only half a question. It's better than why, why sounds clingy. How is obvious, where is optional, and when is now. Who is them, and part of Draco thinks it will always be them, regardless of Potter and the Weasel's life commitment. It's never really been Potter and Weasel, it's always been Draco and Harry. Another part, the part that searches everyone and everything for weaknesses to exploit says he's living in a fantasy. 

Well, no time for that discussion now. Harry is shuffling from foot to foot, meaning he's about to work up the nerve to speak. Draco can't understand how he can come here with such obvious things in mind, then stall at the last moment. Every time, like this. It's pathetic, and Draco likes him all the more for it.

"He blushes sometimes. When we're in public. And he won't snuggle afterwards."

"Well, neither do I. You'd think you'd know that by now."

"Yeah, but. Well... its... you're..."

"Different?" The tone couldn't be more sarcastic, but either Harry is too stupid to notice, or he's too exhausted to care. And Draco's called Harry a lot of horrible things over the years, but stupid was never one of the ones he actually believed. He clearly needs help, and it causes a spike of pleasure to think that it's him. After all the crap, Harry comes to him. 

Before Harry can begin to stammer, or start to think that this was a bad idea and leave- he only did that once before Draco knew when his pressing was crossing the line- Draco stands and takes his position in front of Harry. It's a work of seconds to get Harry fully hard and panting into his mouth. A very large part of him wants to blame the overexcitement on the idea that Harry doesn't get any excitement from Ron. But he knows it's not true, and that's one of the lines that he can't -won't- cross. This only works because he's different, not because he's better. Claiming that, even thinking it, will make this all end.

He doesn't want to be fucked against the shelving. It'll hurt, and he might get splinters. At the very least his face will get pressed into the sheen of dust, and rapid-fire sneezing is not seductive. Hands strategically placed on Harry's arse, he takes slow steps forward. The steps force Harry to move backwards, until they're out the library doors and Harry's back is against the wall. Still, the hallway is only marginally better then the library. The walls are rough and cold stone, the floor lined with an elegant but scratchy to the touch roller.

"Bedroom?" Harry asks, breaking their long kiss. His lips are pink and wet, and the first thought that comes to mind is how much those same lips need to be around his cock. But his survivor brain breaks in and reminds him to answer the query, to be pale and aloof and sophisticated.

"You know where it is." 

After that, very few words are spoken. Harry knows as well as Draco where the master bedroom is, what drawer of the chest the lubrication and other paraphernalia is. Harry knows without asking that Draco likes it best on his hands and knees, knows that if he collapses on Draco afterwards Draco will mock him until he moves out of sheer annoyance. Draco knows that as much as he truly does love it, he has to play it up even more. Has to be a pornography whore, begging for more cock, harder deeper faster. Ridiculous overenthusiasm is the only thing that will help Harry not need to do this again for a while.

They don't have a post coitus fag, though Draco knows how to tolerate the smell. His mother slapped him the first time he wrinkled his nose at the smoke coming off her cigarette. But Harry does lay there, sweat still covering him like a second skin. His panting slows, his body starts returning to normal. Draco lets him indulge, this afterglow is part of it all. Part of the cure those two stupid men need, because they both fail each other in subtle ways. 

 

 

The room is as dark as the confessionals Seamus used to attend every Sunday. He can't help but run his finger against the length of chain on his bare chest. The cross burns against his skin, the weight of God on his shoulders. It's the same every week, he feels dirty at first, being here. Standing at the entrance of the room, hesitating. He knows the walls don't have stained glass windows, he's had his back pressed against them enough to know every nick and bump of drywall. Still, he can feel the eyes boreing into him. The only difference is the saints are carved from come stains, not rainbow glass.

Like every other man in the room, he is blinded. Like Lucia of Syracuse, he is blinded. 

He walks forward, one of many in a line to confess his sins. His steps are light, there are bodies all around him that he cannot see. The blurring spell never waivers, only the outline of men is visible. In this way there are no names, no classes or races. There is only skin, and everyone is the same.

He presses his body against another's. This man is thin, shorter then many. He runs the back of his hand down Seamus' stomach, he's wearing a ring. His fingers graze back up, two well manicured fingers entering his mouth. There is no wafer, but Seamus lets saliva pool in his mouth anyway. His tongue automatically begins to lick at the fingers. Though he doesn't say anything, Seamus is grateful this man has clean clipped fingernails. It's a rare virtue in men. 

He doesn't say anything, because this isn't a confessional. It seems to him, twenty-two years old and completely lost in life, that that's one thing religion always missed. Religion never offered the opportunity to stay silent, to revel in the quiet. This does, the only words around him are simple verbs, harder, faster. Nothing that hurts to say.

The man drops to his knees, and Seamus sighs as his mouth wraps around his cock. There is no hint of sarcasm when he thinks 'This is what God meant us to do'. If it had been Adam and Steve, they still would have loved and fucked, and the Garden still would have been a holy place. Gender has nothing to do with need. In Seamus' world, people need sex and people need God. God created sex because he loved humanity. It's simple, and he doesn't understand why most of society doesn't understand.

 

Draco falls to his knees. It's easier to be submissive in this space than when people can see who he is. Many people would find it ironic that he brings muggles home, his parents would find it disgusting. But the queer wizard population is small, and those who want to have sex with a 'traitor' or whatever else they want to call him is even smaller. Muggles have the nice characteristic of never having to see them again, which makes it easy to do whatever you want in bed with them. There's no embarrassment in anonymity.

Much better however, is this. Wizard men from all over Europe travel to this club, though no one knows who. There's a thrill in knowing he's fucking and getting fucked by people that would hate him if they saw his face.

The man smells citrusy, grapefruit and orange and lime. Like the man uses a different scent for washing, conditioning, and soaping. In any other combination Draco would be turned off, though not enough to actually stop. This combination makes Draco want to eat the man alive. Makes him want to wait outside the club and smell every man that comes out, to find him in real life. Not that it would work, there are dozens of spells that can be used to disguise a person, not to mention apperating directly from inside the club. Not that it would matter, there's a high chance that the person would refuse to talk to a Malfoy.

He draws out a portion of his survivor self, reminds himself that he's been The Best since birth, and that this night is no different. If he acts perfectly, he is perfect, and nothing can take that lesson away from him. No amount of hate can make his causing someone's orgasm a negative thing. 

With renewed confidence he takes the head of the man's cock into his mouth. It's wet with it's bitterness already, a flavour that no virgin can understand wanting, that no whore can stop wanting. From above he hears the man sigh. He wants to hear it again.


End file.
